


Our House, in the Middle of Our Row

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:16:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Connor thinks his house might be plotting against him.Jack doesn’t understand what’s going on.And they’re both just trying to be decent, mature presidents, who can work together without everything going to shit.





	Our House, in the Middle of Our Row

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, and I make no profit for it. Title is a play on Madness' 'Our House'.
> 
> I miss Team North America, but I also love my Avs babies, so this happened.
> 
> All the Greek abbrevations come from [this site](https://www.campusexplorer.com/college-advice-tips/22FBE849/40-Fraternity-and-Sorority-Nicknames-and-Greek-Letters/). I have no real knowledge of the Greek system, but whatever.

_August_

Connor steps out of the car and immediately misses home. The sun shines down from a cloudless sky; not a breath of wind stirs the trees; and the asphalt beneath his feet looks almost wet from the heat. He yearns for lake water lapping at his toes and a cool breeze ruffling his hair, for the crackle of a campfire and the thick aroma of grilled burgers. He’d only spent a couple weeks at the lake house this summer, too busy with his internship.

“Mr. President!” someone hollers, and Connor looks up to see Mitch and Dylan on the porch, wiggling their arms through the air in some strange greeting.

“Thank god, you’re finally here,” Mitch gushes. “Mo almost burned down the kitchen trying to make KD, and Nate nearly broke the coffee table because he was wrestling with Jo for the remote again.”

“Jo deserves some of the blame, too!” an indignant voice shouts from inside. “He was the one trying to put on the fucking Food Network.”

Connor sighs and drags his suitcases out of his trunk. “Could you guys give me a hand?” he asks, and Mitch and Dylan bound down the stairs enthusiastically.

\----

Dylan and Zach are crashed on the couch when Jack finally makes it back, far later than he had planned but at least he’s fucking here. They’re a confusing tangle of arms and legs that he can’t really distinguish in the faint light of the TV, and he wonders how they survived a summer apart, Dylan on study abroad and Zach interning at some engineering firm.

“Hello?” he calls out because he can see the light on in the kitchen.

A head pokes out of the kitchen, wild-haired. “Jack?” Johnny says. “Is that you?”

Another head, much higher than the first, emerges. “You made it!” Noah cries. “Fucking finally, dude. We thought we were going to have to elect a new president or some shit.”

Jack scrunches his face in confused annoyance. “Rush doesn’t even start until Monday. We’ve got three days to get ready.”

Johnny grins, something small and fierce made menacing in the shadow Noah casts over him. “McDavid got here two days ago.”

Jack bristles at the words. “Fuck you,” he spits, and Johnny laughs.

\----

_September_

Connor looks over the crowded room, sees Dylan give him a thumbs-up, and sighs. “Alright,” he calls.

A few guys fall silent and turn to look at him. Most continue their conversations, complaining about their first week of classes and the papers and projects they’ve already been assigned.

“Alright,” Connor repeats, louder.

To his left, Mark gives him an unimpressed look and waves his hand in a come-on gesture.

Connor clears his throat. “Guys!” he shouts, his voice almost cracking. “Listen up.”

The remaining conversation dies, and Connor suddenly has twenty pairs of eyes fixed on him expectantly. From the back, Nate nods his head in approval, and Connor tries to let that ease the anxiety bubbling in his gut.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes flicking down to look at the old rug Matt had found at Goodwill last year and insisted they buy for the house. “And thank you all for being here. I’d like to welcome our returning brothers back for another school year, and welcome our new brothers into the fold.”

There are scattered cheers and whoops that give Connor more confidence.

“We will hold chapter meetings on the first Sunday of every month. They’ll be at 11 o’clock right here. Please make sure not to miss those. One missed meeting will mean probation, and two will mean dismissal. It’s one hour once a month, so that really isn’t much to ask.”

He gets a few murmured yeses and more nods.

So far, so good.

“Excellent, as this is the first meeting, the primary order of business will be deciding what and when we would like to host events this semester. Obviously, the planning of those events will be done by the officers and any committees they designate, but we want to develop a big picture with everyone involved.”

Grinning, Mitch stands and plants himself in front of the old whiteboard that Crosby, a former president, had stolen years ago. Connor had met the guy at an alumni event last year and hadn’t been able to stop himself from bringing it up because there was no way the polite, smiling Mr. Crosby (“It’s Malkin actually.”) had stolen a whiteboard from the Math Lab. Mr. <strike>Crosby</strike> Malkin had grinned bashfully, cheeks flushed, and shrugged. Mr. Malkin—“Call me Geno.”—had hooked an arm around his husband’s waist, pressed a loud kiss to his hair, and informed Connor that his precious Sidney had never been able to hold his alcohol very well.

“Right,” Connor continues, “so Mitch will write down any ideas that you have. Remember that our biggest priority will be an opening social next Friday.”

“Friday?” Matt asks, wild-eyed. “But that’s so soon!”

“No, not this Friday,” Connor sighs. “Next Friday. Like in a week and a half, two weeks.”

Matt’s eyes become only minutely smaller. Fucking goalies, Connor thinks, always needing so much time to prepare for something or adjust to a change or new idea. He should maybe suggest Mitch ask Matt to help him with scheduling for the semester, let him go all neurotic on the calendar until he knows there won’t be any surprises.

That’s a concern for later though. “Does anyone have any ideas for that?” he asks.

Tyson’s hand immediately shoots into the air, and Connor thinks he should be worried. With a hint of nerves churning in his stomach, he nods to Tyson.

“I think we should throw a party with the Pi Kapps,” he says, and Connor’s heart stutters. “It would be a great way to show inter-house unity. Also, since they’re right next door and there’s no fence between us, it would be super easy to host and we’d have so much more space. And Aaron could use his sick Bluetooth setup with the speakers to have the music pumping everywhere. It would be a lot of fun.”

That sounded very rehearsed in Connor’s opinion, and the way that Mitch and…Dylan? are nodding along to the words makes him think that they came up with this together.

“What’s a pie cap?” Nolan asks, brows drawn in confusion.

Connor can see Nate stifling his laughter, shoulders shaking with it, and he decides he kind of hates him and all the useless, former-president advice he gave him.

\----

When McDavid had followed him out of their Organizational Effectiveness class on Monday, Jack hadn’t known what to think. They don’t talk, have done a pretty phenomenal job of avoiding one another since first semester of freshman year. A feat made all the more impressive by the fact that they live right next to each other, are in majors with far too may overlapping classes, and both have a vested interest in hockey that everyone outside of their houses doesn’t seem to understand.

When McDavid had told him that he wanted to invite the Pi Kapps to host a party with them, Jack had stared at him for a solid minute, trying to figure out if it was a prank or some shitty attempt at an olive branch. McDavid had looked just as uncomfortable and unhappy with the request as Jack felt, which meant it wasn’t his idea, which meant he hoped Jack would say no, which meant Jack had to accept.

When he had told the boys about it, JT’s smile had literally lit up the room, and even Auston had mustered a small, satisfied little grin that Jack shouldn’t have found cute but definitely had. The excitement on Alex’s face hadn’t really made any sense, but Jack had decided the rookie was probably just excited for his first, real college party.

He realizes how wrong he was when he finds Alex making out with Strome—fucking Strome—in the weird little alcove between the first floor bathroom and the den. They jump apart quickly, running their hands through their hair and over their clothes like they could actually erase the very obvious evidence of their activities.

“What the fuck,” Jack says.

Alex opens his mouth to say something, and Jack shakes his head, sighs, and walks back toward the kitchen, suddenly in need of a refill.

“Eichs!” Auston shouts at him, voice loud and booming like it gets after too many drinks. “What’s up, man? Sick party, right?”

Jack grabs the hose on the keg and fills his cup, adding a splash of whiskey because it’s that kind of night. “It’s alright,” he says, settling against the counter beside Auston. “Better than I expected with the Dekes helping.”

Auston rolls his eyes and takes another sip of the punch Johnny made. Punch that Jack wholeheartedly believes is just Skittles dissolved in tequila. “It’s a fucking sick party,” Auston informs him. “The Dekes had some good ideas.”

“Whatever,” Jack grumbles. “You’re just saying that because you’re whipped.”

“I’m not whipped!” Auston protests, but Mitch chooses that moment to come drape himself over Auston’s shoulders, smile wide and eyes glassy.

“Babe,” he coos. “Baby babe. Auston, I’ve missed you. You need to come dance with me.”

Auston loops an arm around his waist. “You know I don’t like dancing, and I’m shit at it anyways.”

Mitch pouts, lip curling absurdly as he widens his eyes to stare up at Auston. “You’re not shit at it,” he says softly. “You’re not shit at anything. Aus, babe,” he lifts a hand to cradle Auston’s cheek, “you’re the best at everything. Everything.”

“I have no rhythm, and you know it,” Auston retorts.

Mitch blinks slowly, long eyelashes dipping low, and a smile breaks over his face, sharp canines on display. “You have great rhythm,” he purrs, and he trails a hand down Auston’s chest, fingers skating over the tie-dyed fabric. He hooks his middle and ring fingers in Auston’s waistband, and Jack can almost hear Auston swallow.

“Thanks,” Auston stutters because he’s only smooth on the ice. “We, uh, we shouldn’t do this here, Mitch.”

Mitch pouts again. “Can we do it on the dance floor then? No one will notice there.”

Cheeks flushed, Auston nods and follows after Mitch like a puppy. “Fucking whipped,” Jack grumbles and heads out of the kitchen to find a reasonably quiet spot outside where he can pretend to observe the party and make sure no one’s doing anything too stupid.

Apparently, he is not the only one who wanted some peace.

“McDavid,” he greets when he finds him leaning against the giant oak that sits between their houses.

McDavid nods at him, red Solo cup clutched in one hand. “Eichel.”

“Found your friend Strome macking on my rookie,” he says because he’s too lazy to find a different spot but doesn’t want to be stuck standing in silence with Connor fucking McDavid.

Frowning, McDavid looks at the house like he can actually see Strome and Alex. “No wonder Dylan was so eager to co-host with your guys,” he finally says. “Was the rookie on the planning committee?”

Jack nods.

McDavid sighs. “Guess that explains that.” He lifts his cup in a mock toast and takes a sip.

Jack hums in agreement and grimaces when he catches sight of Jost grinding on JT, hips wriggling like a fish out of water.

\----

_October_

The doorbell rings, and Dylan and Mitch turn towards each other, hands already poised for a rock paper scissors match to determine who has to get up. Mitch loses in two, and he whines until Auston shoves him off the couch. Grinning triumphantly, Dylan settles back into the couch and pulls Alex closer.

Connor doesn’t understand why Auston and Alex got an invite to the Opening Night Pizza Party. They’re not even Leafs fans. “Do you guys not have a TV at your place?”

He’d asked out of curiosity, but the looks he receives suggest he landed more in the range of annoyed or unwelcoming.

“Of course, we have a TV,” Auston replies. “We also have running water and electricity in case you were wondering.”

Connor flushes. “Sorry,” he says, nerves rounding the vowels more than usual. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, well, neither of you seem to care much about the Leafs, and I know the Coyotes have a game tonight, so I’m just surprised you’d rather watch this than that.”

Auston shrugs. “Mitch is still set on converting me to the ‘right side’, and anyways, Jack and Noah are watching the Bruins game right now. I’d rather watch the Leafs than those assholes any day.”

Frowning, Connor turns back to the TV. “Fucking Bruins,” he mutters darkly.

\----

Jack is exhausted when his alarm clock goes off, dragging him from a very nice dream about a guy with a lean body and fucking great hands. He groans unhappily.

Someone bangs on his door. “That’s your third alarm, Jackass. Get up. You have class in twenty minutes.”

Jack wants to be upset, wants to throw the door open and yell at Seth, but he thinks that might just be residual anger from the shitty game last night. Seth is too fucking nice to be yelled at. He actually got up, even though he doesn’t have class until 10, to make sure Jack gets up. Though the gesture might have been a bit self-serving now that Jack thinks about it.

Displeased with the life decisions that led him here, Jack crawls out of bed, throws on the nearest shirt that smells clean, drags on his jeans from yesterday, and trudges down the stairs.

Noah hands him a travel cup of coffee and a package of pop tarts, the brown sugar cinnamon ones.

“I fucking love you,” he mutters fiercely, and Noah laughs.

“I’m flattered, Jack, but you’re not really my type.”

Jack gives him a flat look—he’s heard that joke since he came out to Noah in ninth grade—and grumbles out a real thank you before setting off for class.

He’s late, but he could be later.

Dr. Ernstein raises an unimpressed brow at him, and Jack shrugs helplessly. He slides into his seat, second row because he’s not a goddamn suck-up like some people, and glares at the back of McDavid’s head.

“Fuck the Leafs,” he mutters darkly, and McDavid’s shoulders stiffen.

He turns his head just enough for Jack to see the vicious smile on his face. “Go Leafs go,” he replies in his stupid, soft voice.

“With that goal in mind, I’ve hand-selected partners for all of you in hopes that you can apply the principles you will learn with them.”

Jack abruptly tunes back into Dr. Ernstein and replays her words to himself. Assigned partners? Fuck. Fuck, those are the worst. The fucking worst. He looks around the room, sees Kayla Williamson and decides she wouldn’t be a terrible partner, catches sight of Jon Griffiths and cringes because he would be the worst.

“Please find your partner now and sit with them,” Dr. Ernestein continues, and Jack snaps his attention back to the front of the room.

The slide on the PowerPoint has changed, and there’s a list of pairs filling the screen, rows and rows that Jack scans quickly.

He sees his name.

He sees McDavid’s name.

He decides he’s going to leave a scathing review on Dr. Ernstein’s ratemyprofessor profile because she’s the fucking worst.

McDavid is already turned in his seat, looking at Jack with those stupid, big eyes, waiting for something.

“I’m not sitting on the front row,” Jack tells him.

McDavid looks like he wants to argue.

“I’m not.”

McDavid’s eyes flick over to Dr. Ernstein then back to Jack.

Dear god, he’s not about to get their professor involved, is he? Jesus fuck, what a kid move.

Sighing, McDavid gathers his affairs and slides into the seat beside Jack, who grins victoriously.

\----

_November_

“It’s not that bad,” Dylan says, slurping at his pho. “You’re just taking it all personally.”

Connor gives him an incredulous look. “I’m the only other person in the group, so I’m the only one he could be trying to piss off with all of this.”

Dylan gives him the same look right back. “So he’s had to reschedule a couple of meetings, Con, it’s not like it’s a big deal. He’s still pulling his weight with the project, isn’t he? You guys haven’t fallen behind or anything.”

Staring at his soup like the noodles might have an answer, Connor shrugs. “No, but we’d both agreed that we wanted to finish the project as fast as possible, so we wouldn’t have it hanging over our heads at the end of the semester. Now, he’s always saying that he’s too busy and has other homework that he needs to finish. But he can’t always be busy. I give him like five different times that we could meet, and none of them ever work.”

Dylan shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Maybe he’s got other stuff going on. Maybe he’s got family stuff or relationship stuff that’s taking up his time.”

Connor scoffs and swirls his spoon through his soup, watching the meat and vegetables spin through the broth. “He’s not dating anyone.”

“How do you know? Maybe he’s been keeping it on the down low; maybe that’s why he’s having relationship problems.”

The words make something ugly unfurl in Connor’s chest, something mean and embittered, something he hasn’t felt since their first year. “He’s not dating anyone,” he says like he can will the thought into truth if he just says it firmly enough.

Dylan arches a brow at him, and a smile breaks over his face. “Hey,” he calls, and Connor frowns because Dylan isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking passed him toward the door, where Alex has just come in.

Connor frowns.

“Hey,” Alex replies, ducking in for a kiss before settling in the seat beside Dylan. “Hey Connor!”

“Hi.”

Dylan drapes his arm over the back of Alex’s chair. “Babe, do you know if Jack’s dating anyone?” he asks, and Connor’s frown deepens.

“No,” Alex replies, looking thoughtful, “I don’t even think I’ve seen him go on a date.”

“Must just be more of a hook-up guy,” Connor comments and immediately wishes he could take the rude words and derisive tone back.

Alex’s mouth turns down. “No, I haven’t seen him pick anyone up either. Anyways, Noah said that’s not really his style.”

Dylan kicks Connor’s ankle when he opens his mouth, and it fucking hurts.

“Is he pretty busy this semester?” Dylan asks, nonchalant.

Alex nods. “Yeah, super busy. He added a psych minor over the summer, and he’s trying to fit in all those classes this year and next year so he doesn’t have to graduate later. I’m honestly not sure when he sleeps between all his classes and homework and the house.” Alex pauses. “I also think he’s still working for the company he interned with over the summer, like doing some remote work, so yeah, he’s pretty busy.”

Dylan gives Connor a significant look, and Connor ducks his head, chastened.

\----

Jack has an awful headache, pulse throbbing behind his eyes each time he closes them, and he wishes he could just go to sleep.

But he can’t. He really fucking can’t. He’s already bailed on McDavid too many times, postponing their meetings and sending him comments on their shared google doc when he inevitably can’t make it to their rescheduled meeting. At first, he’d been pleased at McDavid’s annoyance veiled in politesse, but once Connor had moved from annoyance to frustration to mild desperation, Jack had realized he needed to find a time to meet up.

So that’s why he’s spending a perfectly good Friday night in the library, surrounded by papers and printed articles, with only McDavid for company. Jack hasn’t seen anyone else on this floor in a couple hours, and he knows the thirty-minute warning bell is probably going to ring soon, but he’s not about to call it quits, not when McDavid looks like he could go for another hour at least.

Ignoring the pounding in his skull, Jack highlights another line in the article he’s reading and grabs his pen to jot down some notes.

The warning bell rings.

Jack flips the page and circles a chart that looks like it could be useful, scanning the text to make sure he’s not mistaken. Satisfied, he underlines a couple key sentences and moves on.

The fifteen minute warning sounds.

He scribbles a few lines in his notebook, writes the article’s title and first author so he won’t forget what to cite.

The ten minute bell rings.

McDavid sighs. “We should probably go,” he says, voice rough after an hour or two of silence.

It makes something in Jack shudder, so he just nods and begins to collect his things, stacking the papers as neatly as his tired hands can before shoving them into his backpack.

They make their way upstairs and exit just as the five-minute warning echoes through the nearly-empty library.

Outside, it’s quiet, still. No one is on campus. No one is dumb enough to be on campus this late on a Friday night. Jack almost regrets adding a minor and another three credits to the semester.

They walk in silence, passing familiar buildings rendered foreign in the shadowed darkness, and Jack wishes Greek Row wasn’t so goddamn far from the main campus. He wants to crawl in bed and sleep until Sunday. He won’t—he has a paper he needs to get turned in for his History of Psychology class before midnight tomorrow—but it’s nice to think about sleeping that long.

“Larks and Werenski are dating, right?” McDavid suddenly asks, and Jack turns to stare at him. His face must be doing something truly awful because McDavid flushes and ducks his head. “Sorry, I should have led up that a bit more. I was just thinking about it—”

Jack arches a brow. “You were just thinking about Dylan and Zach?”

The flush deepens, and McDavid’s hands fiddle with the straps of his backpack, adjusting them up and down , up and down. “I promise it’s not as weird as it sounds. It’s just…we’ve never had anyone in the house date before—like date someone else in the house—but Nate, Nathan MacKinnon—”

Jack snorts. “I know who Nate is.”

McDavid’s fidgeting increases. “Right, of course, you do. Sorry. That was—sorry.” He stares at the ground, eyes unblinking as he tracks the movement of his shoes.

Jack sighs and rubs at his temples. He’s being a dick. “No, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t need to interrupt you. What about Nate?”

McDavid bites at his lip, teeth rolling over the chapped skin roughly.

It’s more distracting that it should be. Jack has to deliberately tear his eyes away.

“I think he and Cale are dating or at least going on dates. I don’t really know what’s going on, but they’re spending a lot of time together, and I’ve definitely caught them sneaking out of each other’s rooms a couple times. I tried to ask Jo about it the other day, but he was shifty and wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

“Technically, you’re not looking for a straight answer,” Jack jokes, and McDavid snorts. Just once. It was a shitty joke, very middle school or middle-aged dad, but Jack can see some the tension drain out of McDavid’s shoulders, so it’s worth it.

Smiling softly, McDavid glances over at him before looking ahead. “Yeah, I guess I’m not,” he murmurs. “I would like an answer though. Not because I think it’s my business, but I’m kind of worried they’re keeping it a secret because they don’t think we’d be okay with it, and I really don’t want that to be the case.”

Jack nods sympathetically. “I get that,” he says, “especially since you’re president. It’s like your responsibility to make sure no one feels like they can’t share that sort of stuff.”

McDavid’s shoulders fall further. “Yeah, exactly.”

“I’m not sure Dylan and Zach’s relationship is going to be much help,” Jack says regretfully. “I know they’ve been together for years. Like, I think they got together in middle school or something. Pretty sure they were each other’s first kiss, first everything.”

McDavid lets out a burst of air. “That’s a long time,” he says.

“Yeah, so when they showed up, I think everyone just sort of knew already. Like, as soon as you see them, you know they’re together. That’s just the way they are, so I don’t think anyone ever didn’t know, and I know they didn’t care about keeping it a secret.”

McDavid nods, looking forlorn, and Jack resists the urge to wrap him in a hug or grab his hand. That isn’t what Connor needs right now. That’s not what he wants. That’s not what he’s ever wanted from Jack.

“You said it was Nate and Cale, right?” he asks instead. McDavid nods. “Cale’s one of your rookies, isn’t he?” McDavid nods again. “That might be part of the reason they’re keeping it private. I know it’s not a big age gap, but it’s a big life gap. Nate’s a senior; he’s graduating in May and looking to the future, to what comes next. Cale’s a freshman; he probably doesn’t even really know what he wants to study.”

“He’s very mature for his age,” McDavid tells him, and Jack snorts.

“I’m sure he is. Just like the rest of you Canadians.” That gets Jack a grin, and he feels inordinately pleased with himself for it. “But maturity doesn’t change the fact that he’s a freshman with almost four years of school ahead of him. Nate might be a little hesitant about getting involved with him because of that. He might want to be sure things will work out before committing himself to anything serious, anything that could end up long distance when school ends in May.”

McDavid frowns, but he seems pensive not upset, and Jack fumbles with the receipt he’d shoved in his pocket at lunch, more nervous than he should be as he waits for McDavid to speak.

“That makes sense,” McDavid begins. “I know Nate had an internship back home this summer, so if they gave him a full-time offer, he already knows he’s not going to be anywhere close to here after graduation. I think he’s considering staying here for a master’s but hasn’t really decided yet, so maybe he’s figuring it out while they’re figuring things out, too.”

“If you’re really worried about them not wanting to tell the house out of fear, you could always talk to them, either together or apart. Just let them know that it isn’t a problem and that you’ll support them in whatever decision they make.”

McDavid’s grin is small and private, something soft that makes Jack’s chest ache. “You sound like my mom,” he says. “You sound like a parent.”

Jack huffs. “Don’t you ever feel like a parent trying to wrangle a bunch of snot-nosed kids? Except the kids are actually grown adults who should be able to take care of themselves, but they still manage to forget to buy more shampoo or leave their laundry in the corner until their roommate complains.”

McDavid laughs, barely more than a breath. “Yeah, I guess sometimes I feel like that.”

“At least, you’ll have some practice before you have your own kids.”

“Yeah.”

They’ve reached the Row, have been standing between their houses for a solid five minutes, but Jack doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to lose this moment where McDavid isn’t looking at him with disappointment or hurt or any other awful emotion that makes Jack feel like a terrible person, even though he doesn’t know what he did wrong.

“Speaking of kids,” McDavid says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, “I should go make sure mine haven’t broken anything.”

Jack nods and steps away, unwilling to go but unable to ask to stay.

“Jack,” McDavid calls out, and his heart thumps in his chest.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he says, gaze earnest and intent.

Jack shrugs. “Anytime.”

\----

_December_

Connor stumbles down the stairs, bleary from sleep and a mild hangover, and he groans when the aroma of pancakes greets him. Eyes half-closed, he staggers through the kitchen and collapses in one of the chairs.

“Colton,” he mumbles, “you’re a god among men.”

From somewhere in the vicinity of the stove, Colton laughs. “They’re just pancakes,” he says modestly. “Nothing special.”

Connor lifts his head and squints at where Colton should be, just awake enough to make out the white-blond of his hair and the broad width of his shoulders. “They are the greatest pancakes I’ve ever eaten,” Connor declares. “Better than my mom’s, though I’ll never tell her that.”

Colton laughs again and scoops the pancakes off the griddle, coming to the table to dump them on the tray where others are stacked, golden and steaming. “Yeah, that probably isn’t something you should tell her.”

The front door cracks open, and Connor can hear Mitch’s shout of excitement followed by silence.

From the way Mitch acts, you would think it was months or years since he and Auston had last seen each other, not a few minutes or—god forbid—a whole night. Connor shakes his head ruefully and drags a couple of perfect pancakes onto a plate before dousing them in syrup. He takes a bite and just barely holds back an obscene moan.

“Who are you thinking about?” Mitch asks from the doorway with a cheeky grin.

Apparently Connor was not as successful as he had thought. “No one. Colton made pancakes though, and those are ten times better than any shitty sex fantasy.”

Mitch shrugs in agreement and tugs Auston across the room, pausing to wrap Colton in an exuberant hug of gratitude. He slides into the chair across from Connor, pulls Auston down beside him, and begins to decimate the tray of pancakes.

Connor doesn’t know where he puts it all.

As Mitch eats, he chats with Auston about his dumb communications professor who didn’t think a project on the dissemination of trade news on twitter was a good topic for his final paper and tells him about his crazy dance aerobics teacher and the girl who is still hitting on him in that class even though he has repeatedly told her about his boyfriend.

Connor mostly zones out.

“You seriously think Jack has some girl he’s keeping secret from you?”

Connor tunes back into the conversation immediately, heart racing. The kitchen has filled up in the interim. Mark, Aaron, and Mo are gathered around the counter, sleepily eating their pancakes. Tyson is practically hanging off of Colton, telling him that he absolutely needs the recipe otherwise he’ll die. Nate and Cale are hovering at the sink, glasses in hand, still sweaty from their run because they’re one of _those_ couples.

“No,” Auston says. “I think he has a boy he’s keeping secret from me.”

Connor’s stomach drops, and he looks down at his plate, suddenly queasy.

“Are you sure?” Mitch asks.

“About it being a guy? Yeah, absolutely.”

Mitch rolls his eyes. “No, about him having someone.”

“Pretty sure.”

Connor stands, chair scraping across the linoleum, and Auston and Mitch turn to look at him concernedly.

“You alright, Con?” Mitch asks, eyes flicking down his chest and back up.

“Yeah, fine,” Connor mutters. “I’m just done eating. I have a paper I need to finish.”

Frowning, Mitch looks him over once more. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Take a nap if you need to though, eh. You look like you could use some more sleep.”

Connor nods, barely listening, and takes his plate to the sink. Nate gives him an extremely concerned look when he washes the last few bites of pancake down the drain, but Connor ignores him, sliding passed Cale to leave the suffocating walls of the kitchen.

He climbs back up the stairs, collapses in bed, and tries not to cry.

He is only somewhat successful.

\----

Jack breathes a sigh of relief when he sits down, grateful to be done and to have done well. At least he thinks they did well. Dr. Ernstein had smiled at them when they’d finished, and that is a rare enough occurrence to have Jack convinced they got an A.

Grinning widely, he holds a fist out to Connor, who startles when Jack nudges his forearm before returning the fist bump somewhat unenthusiastically. Jack’s smile slips away, and he settles in his chair to watch the next group present.

He doesn’t know what’s up with Connor, hasn’t been sure for the last few weeks. After the library and their conversation, he had thought things were good between them. Not great obviously because Jack wanted a lot more than friendly acquaintances or commiserating presidents, but beggars can’t be choosers. Something has changed though, and Connor seems stiff around him, guarded and terribly polite. It frustrates Jack to no end, especially when Mitch or Dylan or Tyson answer his questions with shrugs or headshakes because no, they don’t know what’s up with Connor either.

Jack hardly listens as the other groups present, too caught up in watching Connor as subtly as he can, noting the tense set of his shoulders and the tight grip he keeps on his pen as he actually takes notes on the presentations. His cheeks look a bit too gaunt, and dark circles paint the skin beneath his eyes a deep blue-purple.

When class ends, Jack hefts his bag and waits for Connor to cap his pen, close his notebook, and meticulously place everything in his own backpack. Connor stands and startles when he notices Jack waiting for him.

“I thought you’d gone,” he stammers.

Jack shrugs. “No, I wanted to see if you wanted to go grab lunch to celebrate not sucking.”

Connor laughs, but it seems forced. “Aren’t you a bit too busy for that kind of thing right now? What with classes and the winter formal and, you know, other stuff.”

Jack does not in fact know ‘other stuff’. “I’ve got a prospectus due tonight, but I’m halfway done, so I’m not too worried about it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to have to do it later just because of me,” Connor says, and Jack’s brow furrows.

He invited Connor to lunch. Why is Connor acting like he’s the one inconveniencing Jack? “It’s not a big deal. I can knock it out before dinner.”

Connor shakes his head, and Jack feels sick. “I wouldn’t want to take your time away from that or from, you know, whoever else.” He waves his hand through the air, a useless, meaningless gesture that leaves Jack confused. Then, he scurries out the door, and Jack watches him go, wondering who the hell Connor thinks he’s stealing Jack’s time from.

\----

_January_

The front door bangs open, crashing into the wall and reverberating through the house. Connor startles from the light doze he’d fallen into on the couch and looks around blearily.

“What up, bitches?” Mitch shouts cheerfully, coming into the family room with Auston just behind him. “Guess who got the new NHL for Christmas?” he asks, already holding the box up and marching toward the entertainment stand.

Tyson perks up, jostling JT as he wiggles out of his arms enough to look at Mitch over the back of the couch. “You did,” he says, grinning. “Are we going to have a tournament?”

Shoving the disk into the xbox, Mitch nods. “I’m thinking round robin then elimination.”

“Individual or teams?”

Mitch wrinkles his nose. “Teams obviously.”

With an excited squeal, Tyson leaps off the couch and bounds up the stairs, hollering about tournament time and how he’s going to get Mo back for last semester.

Auston drops onto the couch beside Connor, and Mitch settles beside him, legs tossed over his lap as he clicks through to the menu.

“How was the break?” Auston asks, curling a hand around Mitch’s ankle.

Connor shrugs. “Good. Just hung out with the family, nothing too special.”

“Did Cam bring his girl home?” Mitch asks.

“Yeah, she was nice. Kind of talkative, but I guess that saved me from having to do much talking.”

Mitch laughs and gives Connor a longsuffering look. “Compared to you, everyone is talkative, buddy. I’m glad she was cool though.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get hassled about bringing someone home for the holidays? I can’t even tell you how much I don’t miss that.”

Shrugging, Connor watches the skaters on the screen push the puck through the neutral zone and score, then reset back on the other end to do it again and again. “Not really, I think they all know I’m busy with school and the house right now.”

Auston snorts. “You fucking presidents. Too busy to live your lives.”

Connor’s breath catches in his throat. “I thought you said Jack was seeing someone,” he says, tone carefully neutral.

Auston lifts his shoulders. “If he actually was seeing anyone, he’s not anymore. He says he’s too busy with the junior classes to have time for that.”

“So what, it’s just homework and hook-ups for him?” Connor asks and bites his tongue in embarrassment.

Auston gives him an odd look. “Jack’s not really into hooking up, says it’s too fake.”

Connor blinks at him, once, twice. This is the second time he’s heard that. “What?”

“He thinks it’s shallow,” Auston shrugs casually, but there’s a hidden tension beneath the calm facade. “He doesn’t stop any of the guys from hooking up, but the Apes tried to challenge us last semester to see who could hook up with more people, and Jack gave their president a right hook to the jaw. He busted his knuckle doing it, but he knocked out half a tooth, so.”

Staring is rude. Connor knows that. It doesn’t stop him from staring at Auston like he’s grown a second head.

Auston lifts a brow. “I know that’s probably not the method you would choose, but it got the point across.”

Connor couldn’t care less that Jack punched the Apes’ dumbass president. “Jack doesn’t hook up?”

Auston eyes him. “No,” he says, “and you better not give him any shit about it.”

“I won’t,” Connor stammers. “I wouldn’t. I would never. I just—I didn’t know. I…I thought…”

“What? That Jack’s like all the other guys on campus and just wants a warm body for the night.”

Connor shakes his head. “No, not at all. Most guys aren’t like that. Just the dicks like the Apes that give the rest of us a bad name.”

Auston stares at him for a long minute, then nods. “Good.”

Connor sags back into the couch and looks at the screen, eyes unseeing.

\----

Jack briefly considers resigning as president when the boys tell him it would be fun to host another party with the Dekes.

“The last one went so well, Jack,” Alex says. “Everyone loved it, and they were talking about it all semester.”

“Yeah, everyone kept saying it was the best party of the year,” JT adds. “They even said it beat out the Zetas’ end of year party last year.”

“It was a good party,” Auston says.

Jack looks at them all and sighs. “You just want to host another party with your boyfriends.”

“It was a great party,” Alex reiterates. “Clearly we do our best work together.”

Jack considers giving them the okay and making them contact the Dekes’ committee so he doesn’t have to talk to Connor. (They miraculously don’t have any classes together this semester, so if Jack wants to, he can return to avoiding him, since that’s what Connor seemed set on at the end of last semester.) But he’s not a child, so if Connor wants to avoid him, that’s his choice. Jack can be a mature adult about this.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “We can ask the Dekes if they want to co-host again.”

“They do,” JT says, “but you can do the whole formal request with Connor to make sure everything’s to protocol.”

Sometimes protocol sucks.

\----

_February_

Miraculously, the weather isn’t terrible the night of the party, and Aaron is able to set up his somewhat overwhelming array of speakers from their house to the Pi Kapps’. There’s music and drinks flowing. Nate and Cale are apparently destroying everyone at beer pong; JT is making sure Tyson doesn’t take a face dive off the table where he’s dancing; and Connor is pretty sure Dylan and Alex have finally made it to one of their rooms, sparing everyone the sight of them making out.

Connor makes another round through the house, doling out high fives and bro hugs every time someone stops to congratulate him on the party. He didn’t do much, but he supposes the president is the easiest person to thank.

He slips out into the cool night air and watches Auston drunkenly shoot on the Pi Kapps’ basketball court, shot widely off and making Mitch nearly fold in laughter. There’s a group kicking around a soccer ball on the other end of the court, most whiffing on the first try.

When Connor scans the yard, he can make out a shadowed figure under the oak tree, and he knows—_knows—_it’s Jack. Jack who doesn’t hook up. Jack who knocks out teeth when someone suggests making it a game. Jack who Connor has seen at every party since freshman year but who never seems to leave with anyone. Jack who wants more than a fake, shallow one night stand.

Connor swallows thickly.

Staring across the yard, he watches Mitch climb onto Auston’s back, barely coordinated but somehow still able to crawl up onto his shoulders and drop the ball into the basket; he sees Larks and Werenski lounging on one of the lawn chairs with a thick comforter thrown over them, keeping each other warm; he catches Nate and Cale doing some absurd, complicated celly when they manage to take down another challenger, grinning at each other stupidly.

His stomach flops over, and he drops his gaze to the ground, scuffing the toe of his shoe over the dead grass.

“You’re not a sad drunk, are you?” someone teases, and Connor spins to see Hanifin leaning against the back wall, drink in hand and eyes shadowed.

“I’m not drunk,” Connor replies. This is his second beer in as many hours; he’s practically sober.

Hanifin eyes him. “Good.”

He doesn’t say anything more, and Connor isn’t sure why he cares whether Connor’s drunk or not. They look over the lawn and watch Mitch attempt a somersault; he’s wobbly and uncoordinated and ends up flopping onto his back when he’s finished.

Connor’s eyes find their way back to Jack, and his palms grow sweaty despite the cold, nerves bubbling in his stomach as he considers crossing the yard and settling beneath the tree with Jack.

Hanifin clears his throat, and when Connor turns to him, it’s clear he knows where—at whom—Connor was looking. He flushes, and Hanifin raises a brow. “You got something on your mind?” he asks, gaze sharp.

Flush deepening, Connor ducks his head and kicks at a rock near his foot. “No, nothing. Just enjoying the party.”

Hanifin doesn’t look convinced, and he doesn’t look impressed. “Look, Connor,” he says, and Connor startles at the careful, deliberate use of his name. “I know we don’t know each other super well, but you seem like a decent guy, and I know you’ve grown up a lot since freshman year.”

Connor furrows his brow.

“Just...if you’re looking for something quick or a one-off, don’t go to Jack. Find someone else for that.”

Connor blinks at him.

“Seriously. If you hurt him again, I won’t hesitate to break your face.”

Connor’s head spins, and he sets his beer down on the porch railing, fingers curling around the wrought iron until his knuckles turn white.

“Jack deserves better than that,” Hanifin says, and he pats Connor’s back a little awkwardly before heading inside.

\----

Jack’s toes have frozen in his shoes, and he feels stiff with cold, but he doesn’t want to go inside. It’s too crowded and thick with heat from the press of bodies. It’s suffocating.

He takes another swallow of beer, still avoiding the toxic punch Johnny considers his party specialty, and grimaces when Seth tries to kick the soccer ball and lands on his ass instead. One of the A Phis, a funny blonde Seth has been crushing on since last semester, helps him to his feet, laughing when Seth grumbles something to her.

Feet crunch on the dead grass, and Connor appears at his side, fingers fidgeting with his cup. “Hey.”

Jack tries not to stare. “Hey.”

They stand in silence for several long minutes, the heavy thump of a base and the cheering of the beer pong crowd filling the air.

Jack doesn’t understand why Connor is here.

When he sees Nate and Cale kiss for good luck, he says, “Looks like they worked things out,” and tamps down on the unexpected jealousy that rises in his gut when the kiss goes on and on to hoots and hollers.

Connor follows his gaze and nods. “Yeah. They told everyone right before break.”

“Good.”

“Thanks again for your help with that,” Connor says, voice soft.

Jack shrugs and waves it off with his beer. “It’s no big deal. I don’t really think I did anything.”

Connor frowns like he wants to protest, but he purses his lips and stays silent. Jack doesn’t understand why he came over here, why he’s still here.

“You remember that party at the Tri Delts’ house?” Connor asks, and Jack nearly chokes on his spit.

What the hell? What the fucking hell?

It’s been two years, two goddamn years of complete avoidance when possible and underhanded remarks when avoidance isn’t an options; it’s been two years of their own personal cold war, as Shayne the History Nerd calls it. Two fucking years, and Connor decides to bring it up now. After too much time and too many missed chances.

Jack stares at him, astounded. “Yeah.”

Connor fixes his eyes on the ground and passes his cup back and forth in his hands, shifting from foot to foot like he’s considering making a break for it.

Jack does not understand.

“I thought I remembered it,” Connor murmurs, “but I think I might be wrong.”

Dread wells up in Jack’s stomach, and he thinks he might be sick, insides churning painfully. “Connor,” he says because he doesn’t know what else to say. He thought…Connor had seemed fine, maybe a little buzzed, but nowhere near drunk enough to not remember. “You hadn’t had that much, right?” he asks, shame pressing at his chest. “You were practically sober. You weren’t—I didn’t think—”

Connor lifts his head to meet Jack’s eyes, brow furrowed. “What? No, I was fine. I—Jack, I’d had like one beer and a shot.” Concern mars his features. “I wasn’t drunk,” he says. “I knew what was going on. That wasn’t—that’s not what I meant.”

Jack wants to snap at him because what the hell did he mean then? They haven’t ever talked about it, haven’t even acknowledged it, and now Connor wants to bring it up? In the middle of a goddamn party their houses planned, with their friends laughing and shouting all around, Connor wants to have this conversation.

“Then what did you mean?” he snaps, and Connor drops his gaze back to the ground.

He fiddles with the lip of his cup, fingernails catching the plastic where it curls. “I thought you just wanted to hook up,” he murmurs.

It’s like a punch to the gut that leaves Jack breathless, chest tight as he tries to suck in air.

“I thought you wanted to hook up,” Connor repeats, “and I…I didn’t want that.”

Jack grinds his teeth. “Yeah, I figured that out when you left.”

“No, I mean I didn’t want to just hook up.” Jack stares in disbelief at his bowed head, the wispy strands of his sandy hair. “I didn’t want to be a one-and-done thing for you.”

“What the hell,” Jack mutters, stunned.

Connor’s gaze flicks up to his and away. “I was so into you, Jack,” he confesses. “And we’d been working on that paper for econ all semester, and even though that was the dumbest assignment ever, I liked working on it because it meant I got to hang out with you. And all semester, I was working myself up to make a move, to say something, and that party just seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

Jack cannot process. His brain shut down after the first sentence. “Why did you think I just wanted to hook up?” he asks because that doesn’t make any sense. He’d been just as eager, just as excited as Connor.

Connor’s cheeks go pink, and he hunches his shoulders. “I don’t know, just the way you were talking, like you’d been wanting it for a while. You kept going on and on about my how much you’d thought about my hands and my mouth and you know…” he trails off and waves his arm at the rest of his body like Jack actually needs a reminder of everything he’d said that.

He hasn’t forgotten. He can’t forget. He remembers the look in Connor’s eyes when he had first approached him, the initial surprise and shock followed by eager acceptance. He remembers pushing Connor against the wall and pinning him there, biting at his lips and soothing with his tongue. He remembers the chocked gasps Connor had released, the breathy moans. He remembers talking, telling Connor how much he’d wanted it, how long he’d wanted it. He remembers whispering filthy things in his ear, one hand cupped under Connor’s thigh as he ground against him, and he remembers the way Connor had shuddered and trembled beneath his hands.

He also remembers Connor pulling away. He remembers him pushing at his chest until Jack had stepped back. He remembers the frown that had pulled at Connor’s mouth and the disappointment that had swam in his eyes. He remembers Connor telling him that he couldn’t do this. He remembers Connor walking away.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he tells him, and Connor snaps his head up. There’s no heat behind the words, no anger, just shock. “Holy shit, Connor, you’re not serious, are you?”

Connor shrugs, an awkward, out of synch movement.

“I flirted with you that entire semester,” Jack enunciates carefully, and Connor’s mouth falls open. “I got up half an hour early so I could get to class in time to sit next to you. I let you ramble about the Leafs chances of making the playoffs for hours at a time, even though we both knew that they didn’t have a chance in hell of making it. I brought Starbucks when we would study. I went to that weird poetry slam night with you when nobody else would.”

Connor’s eyes are wide and round, making him look young and naïve. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you ask me out?”

Huffing, Jack shakes his head. “I did! I asked you to go to that basketball game with me, and you showed up with Strome!”

“I didn’t know that was a date!”

“How could you not know that?” Jack sputters. “I said, ‘Connor, do you want to go to the basketball game with me?’ and when you said yes, I said, ‘Great, it’s a date.’”

Connor flushes. “I thought you were joking! I thought I was reading into things too much and didn’t want to make it weird if you weren’t actually asking me out.”

“And you couldn’t have just asked me if I was serious?”

Connor looks horrified. “No! Because if you weren’t that would have ruined everything. You would have known that I wanted to go out with you and that would have made things awkward because you didn’t want to go out with me.”

“But I did want to go out with you!” Jack replies, arm waving through the air, beer sloshing over the edge of his cup. “I wanted to go out with you since that first fucking day in econ when you told the professor that he had the wrong equation on the screen, all polite with your round vowels and excessive sorrys.”

“Well I wanted to go out with you since I met you at rush and you told that asshole that the only action he’d ever see would be on his computer screen!”

Jack stares at him, stunned, and feels like the biggest idiot in the world. Glancing around the yard, he makes a decision. “Stay here,” he tells Connor, and he pulls his drink from his hand.

“What? Why? Where are you going?”

Jack points a finger at him, awkward around the two cups. “Stay here,” he repeats and takes off towards the house. He sets the cups in the kitchen, runs upstairs to grab a couple hoodies from his room, and snags his wallet just in case.

Downstairs, he finds Mo and Jacob—the designated sobers for the night—camped out in the kitchen. “Guys,” he calls, “I’ve got to go take care of something. Call me if the house is on fire or if the cops come.”

Mo nods because he’s a good Canadian boy.

Jacob gives Jack a onceover. “Where are you going?” he asks with a smirk.

Jack flips him off in reply and makes his way outside, where he dodges the drunken conga line that Johnny started and the errant basketball that Auston is probably too wasted to shoot anymore, though he doesn’t let that stop him. When he’s back under the tree, he shoves a hoodie at Connor and pulls his own over his head.

“This is a Bruins hoodie,” Connor complains, holding the material out like it’s diseased.

“Yup,” Jack replies, no sympathy.

Connor frowns at him for a long moment. Actually, pout might be a better word with the way his bottom lip curls. “Fine,” he sighs and tugs the hoodie on.

Jack likes the way it hangs a little loose on him, too wide in the shoulders and too long in the arms. He fits his fingers around Connor’s wrist and pulls him away from the houses and the party, striding toward the back fence and slipping through the gate.

“Where are we going?” Connor asks, following Jack without complaint.

Jack turns enough to look at him and feels his heart thump at the tousled hair, the trusting eyes, and the hoodie that looks too damn good on him.

“Somewhere more private,” Jack says with a sharp grin, and Connor bites at his lip, mouth curling at the corners.

\----

_March_

Connor stares at Mitch. “You want to do what?”

“Go camping!” Mitch grins. “We can get away from campus and the stress of college life and commune with nature.”

“You want to go camping?” Connor repeats slowly. “And commune with nature?”

Mitch nods eagerly.

“Weren’t you just complaining about the world ending when our wifi went out for an hour last week?”

Mitch frowns at him, and his stupid, big blue eyes grow wide and pleading. “I had a paper due, Conny. I needed the wifi. Anyways, we’ll have wifi there, so we don’t even have to worry about that.”

Connor gives him an odd look. “Most campgrounds don’t have wifi, Mitch. Usually they don’t even have cell reception.”

“We’re not going to be on a campground,” Mitch says like the mere suggestion offends him. “Not with those gross toilets and no showers. We’ll be at the Comphers’ cabin.”

That makes a lot more sense. “JT’s family has a cabin?”

“Yeah, it’s like a two hour drive from here up into the mountains. His parents already said it’s okay if we stay there.”

Being squished into a cabin with half their guys and half the Pi Kapps doesn’t sound particularly exciting to Connor, and the prospect of an empty house to laze around in with Jack is rather tempting, but Mitch has his pleading face on again.

Connor never did learn how to say no to that.

\----

Auston throws Mitch into the water, kicking and screaming, and Jack huffs out a laugh at the indignant look on Mitch’s face when he finally surfaces.

“Don’t laugh,” Connor chides. “It’ll only encourage them.”

Grinning, Jack presses a kiss to his bare shoulder and drags his nose over the skin, arms tightening around Connor’s middle. “What if I’m trying to encourage them?” he asks. “Maybe I’m bored and need some entertainment.”

Connor tuts and flips the page in his book.

“What? We’re on vacation—fucking spring break—and my boyfriend chose a book over me.”

“I did not choose a book over you,” Connor says, reclining further into Jack’s embrace. “I’ve got you, and I’ve got the book. It’s not one or the other.”

Jack nips at the pale skin of his neck. “Should just be me,” he grumbles.

With a sigh, Connor slides his bookmark back into place, drops the book on the table beside them, and slots his fingers through Jack’s. “There, you have my full attention,” he says. “Happy?”

Jack hums in approval. “Very.”

“So what now?”

“What do you mean, what now? This is it,” he says and lifts their linked hands to gesture all around them.

Alex and Dylan have challenged Tyson and JT to a game of chicken, and they circle each other in the pool, turning this way and that to shove at each other before backing away. Zach and Dylan watch from the edge and shout taunts and encouragement each time they get close.

“You made me put my book up, so we could watch our dumbass friends do dumbass things?” Connor asks.

“Hey,” Nate protests a few chairs over. “We’re not all dumbasses.”

Cale scoffs. “You literally just called dibs on fighting the winner.”

“Yeah, because I know we’ll win,” he retorts. “I’m not being dumb. I’m being confident.”

Jack thinks there is a very thin line between confidence and dumbassery, and Nate seems to enjoy flirting with it. Cale usually tempers that.

“Fair enough,” Cale concedes.

Well, Cale _usually _tempers that.

Alex falls into the pool, legs locked tight around Dylan’s shoulders so he drags him down, too, and Tyson lifts his hands in triumph. Nate hauls Cale to his feet.

“You made me put my book up for this,” Connor reiterates, and Jack presses a sucking kiss to the skin beneath his jaw.

“I made you put your book up so you could spend quality time with me.” He rests his chin on Connor’s shoulder and looks out across the admittedly impressive view. “Come on, Connor, be fully present with me in this moment.”

Connor giggles softly. “Did you get that from one of your psych books?”

Jack pinches at the skin of his stomach. “I’ll have you know mindfulness is a very useful, therapeutically-proven tool.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says. “Anyways,” he strokes his thumb over the back of Connor’s hand, “I know you’re really stressed about that managerial accounting class, and even though it seems counterintuitive, it can actually be really helpful to take a break from the stress-inducing things in your life. Recharge, live in the present without thinking about the papers or projects due in a few weeks. It’s good for you, I promise.”

Connor squeezes his hand and settles against Jack’s chest. “Okay,” he says, and Jack grins.

“And if you’re up to it, we can challenge whoever wins this round and show them all who the best team actually is.”

Connor laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, we wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone too badly.”

\----

_April_

Connor has one hand under Jack’s shirt and the other tangled in his curls as they kiss slow and deep, mouths sliding together in slick passes. He’s straddled over Jack’s thighs, knees bracketing his hips, and Jack’s hands sit high on his thighs, thumbs stroking over the rough material of his shorts.

“Come on, Jack,” Connor murmurs, trying to shimmy forward so Jack’s hands will curl around his hips or slide beneath his shirt. They’ve been at this for too long already, and Connor feels raw, stretched thin from the way Jack will build and build and build before suddenly slowing down, hands dropping to his knees and lips pressing feather-light against his racing pulse.

Jack nips at Connor’s earlobe and lets a single finger slip beneath the fabric of his shirt to tease at skin.

“Jack,” Connor groans. “Please. Please, please, please.” Connor can feel the smirk Jack presses into neck, wide and unrepentant, and he pouts. “Come on, stop teasing.”

Jack’s teeth scrape over his collarbone where his shirt hangs loose, the collar stretched out and worn, and Connor shivers.

“I can’t anymore. Jack, I can’t.”

Jack wraps his hands over Connor’s hips and drags him closer. “No?”

Breathless from the friction, Connor shakes his head, tongue too uncoordinated to formulate a verbal response.

Frowning, Jack swipes his thumbs over the sharp curve of Connor’s hipbones. “I think you could,” he says. “I think you can. For me.”

Connor shakes his head again, a sharp little twitch that makes Jack grin.

“You can,” he drawls. “We both know you can.” He presses his fingers into Connor’s skin hard enough to make him shudder and groan. “Just a little bit longer, Con. I promise it’ll be worth it. You know I’ll make it worth it.”

Connor should say no. He wants to say no. Because everything feels like too much and not enough, and he just wants Jack to press him into the couch and bite kisses into his skin, wants to hear him tell Connor how perfect he is, how good he is, how much Jack wants him—needs him. He wants to move passed the gentle touches and soft kisses, wants Jack to leave marks that will take days to fade, wants it hard but not rough, in that sweet spot that Jack manages every goddamn time.

“Connor,” Jack says, pulling him from his thoughts. When he meets Jack’s eyes, there’s concern in their green depths, concern and hesitance. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “We can do whatever you want.”

God, Connor never really stood a chance.

He hooks his arms around Jack’s neck and pulls him forward for a spine-tingling, brain-melting kiss that drags on and on and on until Connor feels drunk from it, light-headed and wobbly in the best way.

Pulling back just enough to speak, he rakes a hand through Jack’s hair. “I want this,” he murmurs. “I want it like this. Sometimes I just…it can just be a lot.”

Jack nods and soothes his hands over Connor’s sides and back. “I know, and whenever you want a break or want to completely stop, we can. Okay?”

Connor nods.

“Okay?” Jack repeats.

Connor swallows thickly, throat tight. “Okay,” he whispers, and Jack presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he repeats. “Come on, Jack. I want this, want you.”

With a low groan, Jack pitches himself forward and sucks at the hollow of Connor’s throat. “You’re so good,” he mumbles. “So good to me. God, Connor, fuck, how are you so perfect?”

A shiver rattles through Connor.

Jack grips his hips tightly. “You’re so damn smart,” he continues, mouthing over Connor’s pulse. “Got the best grades in your program, gonna graduate magna cum laude or some shit with a cushy job waiting. And even though you’re better than everyone on this campus, you’re still the nicest fucking person I know, never snapping at the stupid freshman that email you right before assignments are due and always letting that kid from your ethics class copy your notes because he slept through lecture for the thousandth time.” Jack slides a hand up Connor’s back. “And you’re a fucking great president, even with a house full of idiots.” Connor thinks he should protest, but his mouth isn’t working. “You’ve always got your shit together and are reminding me about due dates and budget deadlines and everything else. Fuck, babe, you’re perfect.”

Connor whines and buries his face in Jack’s neck.

“So perfect,” Jack repeats and bites a path up Connor’s neck, teeth light and teasing. “And you’ve been so good for me, so sweet and patient, even though you wanted more ages ago.”

Connor nods jerkily, and Jack tips him out of his lap. He goes easily, melting into the cushions and reaching for Jack, who crawls over him and settles between his thighs.

“I’ll give you what you want, Connor,” he murmurs. “Give you what you need.”

Connor whimpers, from the words and the way Jack grinds against him, slow and sultry. “I know,” he whispers and pulls Jack down for a kiss.

\----

“Jack,” Noah slurs, stumbling into the kitchen where Jack has been waylaid by the Tri Delts’ president, who wants to do a joint visit to the local animal shelter in two weeks.

“Hey,” he says, catching Noah before he face plants. “Sorry, Amanda, I’ve got to take care of this mess. If you shoot Dylan a text, we can figure out dates and everything when we’re all a little more sober.”

With a fond roll of her eyes, Amanda pats Noah’s head and wishes Jack good luck, before slipping way to chat up Hilary, who Jack knows would totally go for it but also finds Amanda’s earnest flirting adorable.

He hefts Noah up a little higher and gives him an unimpressed look. “Buddy, how are you already this trashed?”

Noah shrugs, slumping further in Jack’s arms. “Matt said he could drink more than me,” he grumbles. “And I was like, ‘There’s no fucking way that’s true. Look at this guy. He weighs like 120 and has sticks for legs. He can’t outdrink me.’”

“And he outdrank you,” Jack deduces.

Noah nods morosely. “I don’t know where he puts it. He shouldn’t be able to drink that much.”

“He’s a goalie, Noah. Nothing about them can or should be understood. You just accept it.”

Sighing, Noah gives Jack a pitiful look before straightening up. “That wasn’t why I came in here though,” he says, tongue stumbling around the words. “One of the Pikes is hitting on Connor,” he informs him, “and I can’t tell if he’s too polite to turn the guy down or if he’s just that oblivious about people besides you being into him.”

Jack frowns and nudges Noah around until he’s leaning against the counter, mostly upright. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

“Don’t break his nose,” Noah calls after him. “Connor wouldn’t like that.”

Fuck Noah. Actually, fuck all the guys who use Connor as a means to get Jack to do things._ Connor wouldn’t like it if you scheduled that activity on a Friday evening, _or _Connor would love it if you let us blow half the budget on this dope bouncy castle. _Jack doesn’t know when Connor became leverage, and he doesn’t know how to feel about how quickly he caves under that pressure.

With a fierce scowl, Jack pushes through the crowded living room, elbowing the more wild dancers out of his way and glaring at anyone that tries to give him shit. Anger boils in his stomach when he catches sight of the Pike standing too close to Connor, hemming him in so he can’t escape. Connor looks panicked, eyes wide and a bit glassy as he stares at the guy. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white, and he’s gnawing at his lower lip in what probably seems like a come-on to the Pike but Jack knows is just the anxiety that overwhelms Connor sometimes.

Deftly, Jack steps forward, brushes the Pike’s hand aside, pushes him back a foot or two, and slides an arm around Connor’s shoulders to pull him close. Connor melts into his side, a little shaky, and Jack glares at the Pike. “Did you need something?”

The guy frowns at him, eyes darting from Jack to Connor and back. “I was just chatting with Connor hear about the closing social in a few weeks,” he drawls. “Wanted to get some ideas.”

Jack gives him a nasty look, the one Auston says could curdle milk. “I’m sure you can manage that without standing six inches away.”

“It’s hard to hear in here,” the guy explains with a shrug. “The music’s pretty loud.”

Connor feels small beside Jack, and though Jack has an inch or two on him and ten pounds, the difference isn’t appreciable. And it’s certainly not enough for Connor to comfortably tuck his head beneath Jack’s jaw or to curl up in his arms, but that’s not stopping him from doing both those things right now.

“You seem to be able to talk to me just fine,” Jack sneers and walks away before the guy can respond.

When there’s a good twenty feet between them and the Pike, he tugs Connor closer and asks, “What do you need? Should we leave? Do you want a drink? I can probably ask one of the Zetas if we can use a room for a little while.”

Connor shakes his head. “Outside,” he mumbles. “Just go outside.”

Nodding, Jack forges a path through the partygoers, nodding politely when someone calls his name and shaking his head when anyone tries to stop them. Once outside, he pulls Connor away from the pool and the loud group playing flip cup, guiding him to one of the quiet corners where the thumping of the music and the laughter of the crowd can be ignored.

Connor detaches himself long enough to assess their surroundings. Then he slides further into the corner, pulls Jack after him, and collapses in his arms, breath shaky and fast. With a slow exhale, Jack pushes his anger to the back burner and wraps his arms around Connor, boxing him in.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Connor, it’s just me. It’s just us. I’m right here. I’ve got you.” He scatters kisses across Connor’s forehead and hair, breathing with practiced deliberation. “It’s just you and me out here, just us. I’ve got you. I promise.”

He keeps talking until Connor’s breath evens out, keeps pressing kisses everywhere he can reach until Connor’s tremors subside.

“I’m right here, Connor. I’m right here.”

Sniffling quietly, Connor pulls back enough to look Jack in the eye. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t realize what he wanted. He was just talking to me about the social at first, and then suddenly he was right there, and people were on both sides of us, and I couldn’t get out. I just—I froze. I didn’t know what to do.”

“That’s okay,” Jack tells him. “That happens.”

“Sorry,” Connor whispers. “I’m sure you were doing something important, but—”

“Connor,” Jack interrupts, voice gentle, and he lifts a hand to cradle Connor’s cheek. “Nothing’s more important than you.”

Connor’s gaze drops, eyes hovering somewhere around Jack’s collarbone, and he shrugs. “I guess, but I still feel bad for taking you away from the party.”

Jack frowns and swipes his thumb over Connor’s cheeks, collecting the last of his tears. “No, don’t feel bad. Don’t ever feel bad. I want to be here. I would much rather be with you than at some party.”

Connor tucks his lower lip between his teeth and stays silent.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs and waits for him to lift his gaze, “you’re better than a million parties, Connor. You’re more important than them, more important than anything. I love you and would much rather be out here with you, would much rather be anywhere with you than without.”

Connor stares at him with those round, blue eyes. “You love me?” he asks, hushed, and Jack’s lips quirk.

“Yeah, I do. I love you, Connor.”

A smile breaks over Connor’s face like the sunrise after a long winter’s night. “I love you, too.”

Jack tilts Connor’s head up for a delicate kiss, lips just barely pressed together.

Connor sighs and sinks into it.

\----

_May_

Connor doesn’t think he can look at another income statement or invoice without throwing up. He’s been studying for hours, giving himself short breaks for coffee or a quick walk around the room, and he feels light-headed when he finally stands up.

“You okay there, cap?” Jo asks with a frown, and Connor waves away his concern.

“I’m fine. I just need to eat something.”

Jo nods in understanding. “I think there’s still some of the lasagna Aaron made the other day.”

Connor fucking loves his house.

He goes to the kitchen, pulls out the tray of lasagna, and slices a large piece for himself. He briefly debates eating it cold because he’s suddenly ravenous at the sight of the food, but he eventually shoves it in the microwave and waits the endless minutes for it to heat.

When it pings, he takes it out and has the plate clean in five minutes.

“Is there any of that left?” Cale asks, stumbling in from what should have been his Principles of Business final if Connor remembers correctly.

He pushes the tray toward Cale who falls on it like a starving man. “How’d the test go?” he asks, and Cale groans.

“I think I did fine, but I’m fucking tired.”

Connor knows the feeling. “Get some sleep,” he tells him. “You’ve earned it.”

Cale nods, and Connor ruffles his hair before exiting the kitchen. When he gets back to the living room, he finds his spot covered by Jack’s sprawled body.

“Hey,” he greets, stepping close enough to run his fingers through Jack’s hair.

Jack groans, catches his wrist, and pulls him down on top of him. “Hey,” he grumbles. “How’s the studying?”

Connor slips a hand beneath Jack’s shirt and spreads his fingers over his ribs. “Good, I think I’m done for the day though.”

Jack hums contentedly. “Good.”

The door bangs open, and a herd of small elephants enter the house.

“Fucking done!” Mitch shouts. “Praise Jesus, hallelujah!”

“Could you praise him a little quieter?” Jack grumbles, and Mitch pokes his head into the room.

He grins. “Is it couples’ nap time?” he asks, already turning away. “Auston, babe, come here! We’ve totally earned this.”

Auston appears at his side, the bags under his eyes deeper than normal after four finals and a couple term papers. “Dibs on the beanbag,” he mutters and pulls Mitch to the corner, falling into the fluffy deathtrap and opening his arms for Mitch to crawl in beside him.

“Did I hear nap time?” Tyson asks, coming down the stairs. “Where’s JT? Auston?”

Eyes already closed, Auston waves a hand through the air. “He needed to grab something from the house. He’ll be here in a minute.”

Apparently satisfied, Tyson claims the Lazy-boy and drags a blanket over him, snuggling in as he waits for JT.

“Nap time?” Cale asks, already moving to claim the other couch.

Tyson nods. “Nate said he was submitting his paper, so he should be down in a minute.”

Nate crashes down the stairs a few seconds later. “Guess who’s done with their undergraduate career, motherfuckers?” he says, arms spread wide.

Scattered cheers go up around the room, and Nate flops onto the couch beside Cale.

The front door opens and closes once more, much softer this time because JT is a polite human being who wasn’t raised by savages. He enters the living room, takes stock of the lounging bodies and Auston’s light snores, and settles in beside Tyson.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs, and Connor hums in acknowledgement. “You’re going to crush that final, and as soon as you do, we’ll celebrate.”

A sleepy smile spreads over Connor’s face, and he presses a sloppy kiss to Jack’s jaw. “Sounds good.”

\----

“Text me when you get there, okay?” Connor says for the millionth time, and Jack huffs, shaking his head fondly.

“I will.”

“And pull over if you’re feeling tired.”

“Of course.”

“I also stuck a Mountain Dew in the cup holder if you need it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re sure that AirBnB has good reviews?”

“Yes. It’s the same one I stay at every time I go home. The lady told me I was an honorary grandson last time I was there.”

“And did you fill up on gas?”

“I will as soon as I leave.”

“Good, and—”

“Connor,” Jack interrupts with a wry grin. “I have everything. I promise. I will call you as soon as I get there, and I won’t drive drowsy, and I’ll drink the Mountain Dew, and the old lady will be nice to me like she always is, and I’ll get a full tank of gas before I hit the highway, and I won’t answer any of the texts you send until my car is fully stopped and parked.”

Ducking his head, Connor scuffs a toe over the asphalt. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just don’t want you to forget anything.”

Jack loops an arm around Connor’s waist and tugs him closer. “I won’t. I haven’t.”

Connor nods. “Okay. Good, good.”

“I’ll miss you,” Jack says, and Connor’s face falls. “I know you’re not really excited about being so far apart, and I’m not either, but it’s just a few months. We’ll call and skype every day, more than once if you want, and I promise that I won’t be upset or annoyed about it. And if I can’t answer because of work or something, I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

“Are you sure you want to give me that kind of blanket permission?”

Jack chuckles. “Absolutely, you’re the only person I would want to give that to.”

Connor bites at his lip and glances up at Jack through his lashes. Jack knows it’s out of nervousness, knows it’s Connor’s natural shyness emerging because this is new territory, but fuck if that look doesn’t get him in the gut every damn time.

“I love you,” he says, and Connor grins.

“I love you, too.” He darts forward for a quick kiss, too aware of their friends gathered on the porch and the street of houses where anyone could look out the window and see them.

“I’ll see you in August,” Jack says.

“And you’ll see why Canada is the best,” Connor replies with a cheeky grin.

Rolling his eyes, Jack presses a final kiss to Connor’s mouth. “And then I’ll bring you home and show you that Boston is really where it’s at.”

Connor smiles at him, small and sweet. “Can’t wait,” he sighs, and Jack slides into his car before he does something stupid, like make out with Connor in front of all of Greek Row or drag him back to Boston now.

Starting the engine, he slips his sunglasses on and rolls down the windows. “Love you. See you in August.”

“Love you, too,” Connor says with a little wave, and Jack peels out of the driveway, trying to keep his eyes on the road and not his rearview mirror.

Fuck, August is far away.


End file.
